<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Tonight, We Dine by CrimsonMoonn</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26712391">Tonight, We Dine</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrimsonMoonn/pseuds/CrimsonMoonn'>CrimsonMoonn</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Body Horror, Fantasy, Gen, Non-Linear Narrative, Poetic, Short Stories, people get eaten i dont know what tag that'd be, these'll connect eventually lmao</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 07:08:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,843</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26712391</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrimsonMoonn/pseuds/CrimsonMoonn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Me and some pals have a writing game thing goin on where onea us picks a prompt word/phrase and we all write something for it! I've got brain worms and decided ta make alla mine in one universe and felt like posting them! enjoy!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Rainborn</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>summary subject ta change when i eventually thinka somefin artsier akwjerjk<br/>each chapter title will be the prompt word for each story!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>You perch at the edge of the forest, the walls of reality and the slowly growing clouds amassing above as your company. In front of you is something trying very hard to masquerade as a clearing, too many holes to be a proper one, their hands inching along the oily floor towards each other in the vain hope that they can reunite. Your heart quickens as you notice the sky darken and the crack causes the first drops to fall, slowly but steadily filling the bottoms of the various pits. What could be considered hair blocks your vision as you stand up to bear the full brunt of the storm’s ire, and your Hand pushes it away from your Eyes so your view of the creation continues unobscured. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Soaked just short of the bone, you carefully approach the largest hole resting in the center of the clearing, trying as hard as you can to not step on any of the hands now sated by the downfall. Reaching into the cavern in your chest you grasp the beginnings of something you don't fully want to comprehend. The teeth of it grates at your edges as you pull it forward into being, the strain making your Eyes melt and your Hand tremble.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dropping it into the chasm before you, the liquid pulses, like a hitch of the breath.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Fleshless</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Opening the door brings in a blast of hot air, heavy enough to be felt like a cloak as it settles on your skin. The heat haze in the far distance catches your eye, seeming to physically shift and swirl in improbable patterns, distorting the sand and the dry mountains in a way that sparks something in your gut. You’ve heard stories, rumours and mutterings and prayers, of a Deity said to help in times of need. That this being seems to have a very distorted sense of ‘need’ and ‘justice’ is left out of said prayers, the devoted not wanting to sully their God’s image despite how little of one there is. What is not said is how the people who don’t desire this ‘help’ but have been deemed in need of it are never able to convey that after the fact. Your chest aches at the thought of encountering something so Holy, even for a moment. The cracks in your palms deepen and your eyes burn as the far off but approaching haze beckons you closer and you step forward-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A hand touches your shoulder, jolting you out of your reverence. Your mother pulls her hand back the moment you finally look at her, the act of dragging your eyes away almost causing you physical pain. She asks you to go and buy some grain in a tone that conveys that she has been repeating herself for a while, dark eyes searching your face as she looks up at you. She tries as hard as possible not to show it but she worries for you, has seen what this specific brand of devotion towards the unseen has done to others in the dusty old town you reside in, of what it’s changed them into. As much as she denies it a small part of her has been terrified of you since you started staring out at the horizon line and losing hours at a time, and that part makes her fear</span>
  <em>
    <span> for</span>
  </em>
  <span> you even stronger.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Not privy to these thoughts, you simply smile at her and bid her farewell.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Luciform</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>[adjective]<br/>like light; having, in some respects, the nature of light; resembling light.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>You stand on a pedestal. The floor to ceiling windows surrounding you letting in streams of dying moonlight that softly covers the empty floor in stark contrast to the harsh sunlight that fills the room during worship. The inside of your stomach eats at you, starved for days and angry for it. The back of your eyes itch and your tongue splits as you refuse to move even a single part of your being. Your hatred for your weak willed mother crystalizes at the back of your throat, memories of your youth and the moments leading up to this playing constantly in your mind as you hold vigil in wait for the sun and the Holy One’s arrival. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You don’t think about your siblings’ demises. You don’t mourn them as you know your mother does in her bedchamber in the middle of the night despite them all being by her own hand. You don’t allow yourself to feel anything besides the simmering fire in your gut that fuels your every step and action. It would feel too much like atonement otherwise. The first grasping claws of sunlight touch the world around you and you feel your time running out.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You are heir to the throne and the last living child of the Queen and at dawn you will die for a God you despise.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Sonder</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>[noun]<br/>the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As you stare down at the display of fruits on the stand you hear a shuffling of skirts to your left as a woman steps up besides you. You glance over at her and see her abruptly freeze when her eyes land on the small box of oranges. A flash of grief crosses her eyes as she looks away and you notice a deeply etched scar crawling up her neck from the collar of her coat to the start of her hairline. You wonder how she got it, what secrets lay between the ridges of skin and soft fabric. You wonder what she’s gone through that left scars both physical and mental, what memories planted sadness in her gaze at the sight of a simple fruit. </p><p>She sticks in your thoughts like a seed as you leave the market and start your trek back home to the outskirts of the swampland. Your pondering is disrupted when you spot a soft leather shoe stuck in the mud just before the start of the wooden platforms of the town proper. You chuckle at the image of a foreigner walking around with a single shoe. Everyone sensible in these parts knows to either wear tough boots or not bother with shoes at all. The only flaw of going barefoot is that the hands at the bottom of the water might try to grab your ankles, but if the water is still high enough where you can’t spot them beforehand then they’re most likely sated enough to just gently pull out of their grasp or softly kick them. It’s near the end of the year when they’re dry and the water is low that you have to worry about. </p><p>You wonder what brings someone to these lands besides birth, if they’re visiting someone dear to them or on a quest for plants only found here. You wonder which of the other regions they’re from, or if they’re from the city, and whose lives they have touched on their journey. You wonder who thinks of them fondly, and who thinks of them bitterly. </p><p>It makes you think about your own effect on the world. The baskets you weave aren’t the most highly regarded in the world, not even in this town if you’re being honest. Your sisters are much more skilled in the trade and have been doing it for longer, you personally being in charge of finances and general housekeeping since your parents died years ago. But weaving has always been a good way to relax, and your sisters proudly display your lopsided baskets besides their finely crafted ones when you sell them at the market. You think about the time a man from the city bought one of your baskets, a lumpy little thing made of your favourite bright blue leaves that grow near your house, saying that it was the most charming one of the bunch. You wonder if he has it on display in his house, as a conversation starter to endear guests and segue into stories about his travels. Or maybe he actually uses it, to hold fruit maybe. You wonder if he remembers you. You hope so. </p><p>As you finally arrive home you find one of your sisters stomping around in the murky water in front of the steps leading up to the entrance way. You grin with your lungs, thinking about all the little thoughts and emotions you’ve been privy to from her throughout the years, and all the ones you haven’t. All the things that people think that you will never know, and all the ones that you will. </p><p>At the end of everything you hope with all the water in your eyes and every beat of your heart that you will be remembered by the lives you touch as you remember the ones that have touched yours. What’s the point of living otherwise?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Defect</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>[noun]<br/>a shortcoming, imperfection, or lack.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>tw for some mild violence, body horror, shit like that, also a person gets eaten by an almost-human so i wouldn't count it as cannibalism but close</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>After what feels like hours, you find yourself in the mouth of a cave. At sunset you were cleaned and clothed and sent up the mountain by the priests in your village. This is the highest of honors, They said. Don’t worry, They said, your children will be taken care of only by the best and will have the fullest lives. You will be remembered for the rest of days, They said. That's what broke you, because you know only the most devout pretend to remember the past Offerings at this point. When you were dropped at the start of the trail up the mountain you stood there silently until the priests abandoned you and the sun’s last streams of light left the sky. You started walking. You don’t remember the decision to but you still feel that tug, that urge to move. Managing to pause for a second, you stare into the cavern before you. You think the view of the whole land would be gorgeous from this high up, but you can’t seem to turn away. The world around you is horribly dark, the only light seeming to come from the far back of the cave, a soft orange glow offset by the sinking black before it. The exhaustion from the climb catches up to you and you hold yourself up with the wall, almost collapsing. You keep moving. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wall and the air itself slowly gets warmer, a pleasant feeling after being frozen to the core of your bones by the wind and chill of the mountain. It quickly becomes uncomfortably hot, the melting ice flakes on your clothes start to steam and the tips of your hair curl around your face. You sweat your sins and your lingering love and your head empties of all but the call to your soul. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And finally, you stop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before you lay two mirrored sweltering pools of lava taking up the entire floor and ceiling of the cave. Your gaze follows a droplet fall up to the pool on the ceiling. It ripples like blood. Your head throbs along with your rapidly quickening heartbeat. A Hand emerges from the edge of the pool near your feet, deep black claws gripping the stone like wet clay. Your attention latches onto the Being that pulls itself out of the lava, achingly slow as it draws closer to you, inches of what you think is skin revealed as it starts to </span>
  <em>
    <span>breathe</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It’s gaze a physical weight as it stares you dead in the eye without blinking. The </span>
  <em>
    <span>thing’</span>
  </em>
  <span>s features are all wrong in a way you can’t exactly describe, unmoving and unsettling in a starkly inhuman fashion. You think it has more Eyes than are seen, and it’s sharp grin is just slightly too wide for its face. Fully out of the pool, it </span>
  <em>
    <span>towers </span>
  </em>
  <span>over you, slouched but still scrapping the upper pool, seemingly uncaring about the lava that continues to drip down on it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What you don’t know is that it wasn’t supposed to be like this. It’s three brethren, while inhuman, are not this disgusting, this wretched, this malformed. When it came into being it did it </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong </span>
  </em>
  <span>and has been paying the price ever since. It’s forced to feast on the truly living but </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh </span>
  </em>
  <span>does it enjoy it, not only the surge of energy after the fact but the process, the fear. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>craves </span>
  </em>
  <span>that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tug in your chest, your soul, holds you in place as the Being approaches and you see a gleam in its Eyes. You tremble as it gets close enough to softly lift your chin in its Hand, not noticing where the other one went until it’s lifting your own hand into it’s Mouth, biting halfway down your palm and taking your fingers clean off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your mind blanks. After a moment your knees give out and you collapse in pain as you pull what remains of your hand back and cradle it against your chest. It lets you. Under the noise of your groans you think you hear it laugh, but it sounds </span>
  <em>
    <span>grating</span>
  </em>
  <span>, too high pitched and sharp to come from anything with proper lungs. The blood streaming out of your palm soaks into your clothes, making the already sweat and grime covered garments even more unseemly. In all the ways you have imagined you would die you always hoped you would have more dignity at the end. The Being kneels down before you, eyeing you with delight, the ichor in it’s veins </span>
  <em>
    <span>sings</span>
  </em>
  <span> in excitement. You haven’t looked away since it arrived. It holds your leg, deceptively tender, and opens its Mouth wide enough to fully encompass your calf. Before you can blink, as if you were able to, as if you were </span>
  <em>
    <span>allowed </span>
  </em>
  <span>to in its presence, it cleaves your leg off from just below the knee down, pulling straight through the sinew and bone and leaving the blood to fall endlessly upon the burning stone floor. You try to relearn how to breathe but you can’t. The edges of your vision starts to blur, the Being coming into sharper focus. You see the ragged cut of your leg out of the corner of your eye and can do nothing more but helplessly grasp at it, </span>
  <em>
    <span>shaking</span>
  </em>
  <span> with exhaustion and pain and loss of hope for what could have been.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> It cups the back of your neck, leaning over you and tapping along to the rhythm of the throbbing in your head. You think parts of your skin is burning from the lava drops that have fallen on you. You can’t really tell anymore. It presses it’s forehead against your own, in what your hazy mind dregs up as respect of all things. When it tears out your throat you hear it more than feel or see it. The raw squelch of the skin tearing and the heavy thump of your head falling against the floor as it lets go. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last thing you feel before falling into nothingness is the wet but gentle caress of a Hand on your cheek and you feel the </span>
  <em>
    <span>thank you</span>
  </em>
  <span> in the motion as you finally dissolve.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. ???</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>You perch on the uppermost tip of the church that towers over the town. The midday sun lingers directly above you, as if keeping you company as its harsh light blankets everything in view. The bell tower rings, resonating through the area, and the humans lingering in the plaza or outside of shops stop and lift their heads in prayer. Many turn and stare directly at you, though you must appear as just a blur of light to them. After a minute or two most go back to what they were doing, leaving only a few of the truly faithful praying for quite a bit longer. Their devotion pleases you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You don’t know how long you’ve existed for. Longer than the humans have lived on this island, but not by too much. The chords of life hadn’t struck fully on the lands until the other 3 beings the humans call deities came to be. You’re the oldest, though by how many years you also don’t know, seeing as you pay more attention to </span>
  <em>
    <span>when </span>
  </em>
  <span>the sun initially shows itself to wash away the dark before once again falling into the ocean, than how many times it does so. In an unspoken agreement you each claimed a portion of the island, you personally taking a liking to the rocky and blisteringly hot east with a perfect view of the rising sun through the only gap of the mountains circling the land. The landscape is much less your doing than you claim, your tallest tale being that you opened the mountain range with your own hands so you could watch the sun rise unfettered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The humans are always so eager to believe beings of legend exist to guide them. It took so little to convince them to worship you, especially when the town was just being established in those early days. While not being human, you are not what you claim, yet they still spill blood for you, still willingly sacrifice their own to quench your thirst and sate your appetite, state that it is all holy in the end. You will do everything in your power to keep them doing so. You are a false God and you intend to </span>
  <em>
    <span>stay </span>
  </em>
  <span>one.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Pugnacity</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>[noun]<br/>aggressiveness; a natural disposition to be hostile; inclined to quarrel or fight readily; quarrelsome; belligerent; combative.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Your older brother leaves when you’re 10 years old. He has just reached adulthood and deemed ready enough to embark on his first merchant journey with one of the caravans. You’re a scrappy little thing, barely reaching his chest, so when you hug his waist goodbye he pats your head and whispers his farewells in return. It wasn’t until later that you realised how final his words sounded. </p><p>When the caravan arrives back to the village several months later your brother isn’t with them. When you ask after him all you get is glares and harsh smacks if you’re too loud about it. One of the merchants on the trip finally breaks after days of your constant, increasingly aggressive inquiries and spits at you that the village doesn’t discuss those that have left it, chosen or otherwise. That they are unworthy of remembrance. </p><p>It finally hits you how no one ever speaks of your parents. Your father you have never received any answer to where he may tread but your mother was supposedly given the honor of being an Offering to the Merciful One. Not even the priests of the village, the only people willing to say anything about her at all, will tell you more. All they give you is that she was lovingly accepted by the Merciful One. Because of her It has Blessed us with tepid winters and plentiful trade. You should be honored to share the blood of one who has spilled her own for the greater good.</p><p>It is then that the spark in you slowly starts to grow into a flame, your playful rowdiness turns sharp and harmful as in that moment you scorn the village and their God. You start to lash out against your fellow agemates, weak, complacent beings in your eyes. But as you grow older your fury shifts focus to your captures, the priests in their pathetic temple to a God who claims their own, the head of the village and her trusted confidants who sanction this all, the men who run the caravans and trade out in the world yet still come back to this wretched place. The only ones who do not gain your ire are the woman in the forges and that is solely the force of your string thin respect for your older sister, one of the best blacksmiths in the village.</p><p>She tells you to temper your rage and be quiet, that the catharsis of their hurt isn’t worth all the fuss it brings. She still won’t speak of your brother. You secretly think her pathetic for it, but she is the last of your blood and to that you will cling.</p><p>The village tries to contain you. They try to put your energy into the forges, in the hope that you will be some use to them. You bite at the lines in their fingers and pull on the chain they’ve tightened around the softest parts of your throat but when you tell them you are a boy they take their last shred of decency and let you start training with the other young men in the village. You quickly become one of strongest, growing in height and bulk as you begin to shed your adolescence. All your time becomes devoted to training, your starter sword quickly swapped out for a battleaxe as you discover that it’s style matches you well.</p><p>The village is scared of you, as much as they try to hide it. You can tell. Of your deep seeded rage, your unapologetic blasphemy, the pool of fire in your chest that shines through your eyes brighter than the lava in the forge.</p><p>But still they will not let you leave. For those so flippant about the ones who have left them, the village holds tight, cutting, to those it still has.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Solivagant</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>[adj]<br/>Wandering alone; A solitary adventurer who travels or wanders the globe.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>You look as the last flickering rays of light kiss the horizon and decide to camp your wagon in a small clearing just off the trail you’re currently traveling along. You tie your horse to a small tree and pat the side of its neck, the heat radiating of it’s dry leathery skin soothing you. The East is warm enough from the constant fires that you don’t have to bother with a fire of your own or a tent, so you lay your blanket down and begin your nightly routine of upbraiding, brushing out, and re braiding your hair before you sleep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You idly ponder what to stock up on after you sell the Eastern pottery you have filling your wagon. The route you’re on at the moment has you headed towards the North, luckily it’s late enough in the year that you don’t have to bother with switching into a boat-wagon, and they seem to enjoy the vivid reds and soft yellows of the Eastern clay. Considering the season and the distance you think it will be worth your time to stock up on Northern fruit and sell it to the folk from the City. You’ll figure out where to go from there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The prospect of going back to the desert crosses your mind but you quickly shove it away. The gems aren’t ripe yet so all the trip would give you is unwanted memories of a past you try in vain to forget. There’s nothing left for you in the South. Your sister fell to the hopeless allure of what she called the Generous One years ago. Your father sits where you grew up, staying despite himself in the frail hope that his children will come back to what is no longer a home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Is Home the dusty and broken house, one you abandoned back in the desert? Or is it the wagon you’ve traveled in for the past couple of years as you refuse to settle down? You don’t think you have one really. Home is something for people with more stability, more love. You hope one day you might find it, despite it all.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>